It’s not a cult! ⁹

Really, it’s not.

Although, if Chalene Johnson asked us to jump off a bridge…I’m pretty sure some of us might just do it.

While wearing some fierce pairs of bedazzled sweatpants, naturally.

But don’t worry, she’s way to positive to ever encourage that sort of thing. The only jumps she requests from us are of the air jack variety.

Chalene, rocking the air jack

And trust me, there were plenty of air jacks at Camp Do More 2011.

What is Camp Do More, you ask?

Think of it as cheer camp, for adults, but with much more hair extensions, self tanner and rhinestones.

Now do you understand why I went?

And seriously — it’s not a cult. More like family of focused, positive, high-energy people who share a passion for fitness and personal development. And perhaps even more importantly, t-shirt shredding.

The team that shreds together, stays together.

I was lucky enough to be placed on the Pink team, affectionately known as Team Pink-a-Boo. Holla!

Who’s yo boo? Pink-a-boo!

I have to admit, I nearly didn’t wear the tutu, or any of the other fab accessories acquired during my last-minute shopping spree the night before camp. While neon leg warmers and pink princess headbands seemed like awesome fashion choices at the time, as soon as I arrived in Orange County, I feared I may have gone slightly…um…overboard.

Yes. Me going overboard. I know that’s really difficult to imagine, but I ask that you squint your eyes, turn on some Spice Girls music and try your best to picture it.

Or you could always just look at this photo.

What? It was a hip hop workout. I was going for Elle Woods meets gang member. And just for the record, you DO burn more calories when working out in a fog machine haze. Obviously.

Yes, subtle just happens to be my middle name. How did you know?

OK, technically my middle name is Margaret…but I think the name means subtle in some other language or something.

Alright, alright…it means “pearl” in Greek. Close enough.

But I digress. After checking into the hotel, visions solidifying my reputation as the “crazy girl” at camp danced through my pretty little head as I gazed down at my tutu and slowly whispered “What was I thinking?”.

My roomie Courtney, a Camp Do More veteran, assured me that tutus were not only acceptable…they were encouraged.

Encouraged? I’m sorry…I thought I had only signed up for Camp Do More 2011? No one had informed me I would be arriving in my own personal pink, sparkly promise land.

I decided to go for it, as I’ve been wanting to wear a tutu for ages.

Literally, ages.

My dream of wearing one was slightly postponed as I was kicked out of ballet class as a child.

Yes, you read that right. Kicked out.

Homey don’t mess around.

In my defense, no one had ever told me that boys could take ballet lessons.

Apparently, our instructor didn’t appreciate my constructive criticism towards Jeremy, the only male student in the class.

And so, at the ripe old age of five, I was removed from the dance studio. Our teacher felt I wasn’t “mature enough” for the environment.

I think it’s safe to say, that a week shy of my twenty-seventh birthday, I was finally mature enough to wear my tutu.

“Baby look pretty now, mommy?”

At least I hope so.

On a side note…I do think the Miley Cyrus rhinestone flower does add a touch of class. I mean, without it, this ensemble would have just been….well…tacky.

Donning my prized tutu was liberating. The shackles had been taken off my feet, and I was free to dance, roundhouse kick, shimmy, tuck jump and perform jewel encrusted sumo burpees until I was ~~blue~~ pink in the face.

Yet halfway through the sweatiest body pump you ever did see, I came to an immediate halt.

I saw something out of the corner of my eye that was green, fluffy and made of…tule.

At that moment, I came to a devastating realization. I was no longer the lone tutu-wearer.

Under normal circumstances, I would have burst into tears…but I was distracted by a bedazzled pair of high-heeled Nikes that just happened to be strolling by.

I told you it was my promise land.

It turns out my pink tutu of fabulousness wasn’t as original as I had hoped…I saw no less than four other tutus on the first day.

The girl I spotted wearing camouflage fairy wings covered in glitter? Now she was original.

It’s looking like I’m going to need to seriously up the ante for next year.

I’m currently considering a metallic pink unitard, and possibly something that incorporates fiberoptics. But these are just ideas I’m tossing around…it’s not like I’ve done conceptual costume sketches or anything.

Alright…there might be a few sketches floating around.

Shut up, Scott.

Yet Camp Do More is so much more than fitness and fashion. It’s about friendships, personal development and achieving your biggest dreams and goals.

It’s about being your best self.

It’s also about hair whipping contests.

NOW do you wish you had come along?

This photo was taken during the hair whipping contest at our dance party. Yes, we had a dance party, which essentially, is like a night at the club on steroids.

Dancing with the spirit stick. Yes, we have spirit sticks. Bedazzled spirit sticks, which are WAY cooler than regular ones, in case you didn’t know.

Of course Pink-a-boo won the spirit stick. And then immediately made our way to the local Subway in hopes that flaunting it might earn us free sandwiches.

But back to the dance. It was like being in a sweaty, sparkly, sassy, balls to the walls music video. Just ask my brother.

My little brother is in the military and stationed in Southern California. In a serendipitous turn of events, he was able to come pay me a visit.

On the night of the dance, as luck would have it.

I believe his exact words were, “You people are crazy.”

Apparently, normal people don’t spontaneously engage in hip hop dance battles?

If popping and locking in heels and a cocktail dress is wrong, then I definitely don’t want to be right.

*****

My brother, who just happens to be a tough as nails member of the United States military, is no stranger to fitness. When I explained that we were exercising for six hours a day, he was not impressed. When I told tales of it being so hot up in da club that pregnant woman were advised to leave the room during workouts, he didn’t blink an eye. When I showed him the blisters on my feet he shrugged and said “I’ve seen worse.”

But when I removed my jacket, he uttered a sentence sweeter than a Chocolate Peanut Butter P90X Protein Bar.

“Katrina…you’ve got guns.”

Let me just pause for a minute to say that my brother is pretty much a flawless physical specimen whose body could be considered more dangerous than an AK-47.

I, on the other hand, have thighs that bear a striking resemblance to the jello salads known only to potlucks in Minnesota church basements.

But in that instant, my hard work had paid off — hearing him say those words made the entire trip worth it.

******************

My brother has stamina, endurance, strength and dedication.

He is not a quitter.

When life hands him lemons, he uses them as a flotation device to swim himself back to victory.

The man gets paid to skydive, shoot guns, and save people’s lives.

This same man lasted no more than ten minutes at the Camp Do More dance.

Yes, we are that hard-core.

And next year? In 2012 we will be even more intense.

I didn’t think this was even possible. But then they announced that next year’s camp will take place at the most magical place on earth.

That’s right, I’m going to be Turbo Kicking at Disneyland. Hopefully with Donald Duck, although I’d settle for Goofy in a pinch.

Please, try to contain your jealousy. It’s of the utmost importance that you remain focused.

You see, I’m on a mission to find the pinkest, sparkliest Buzz Lightyear costume I can get my hands on, and I need your help.

I originally wanted to go as Woody, but I figured yelling out “To Infinity, and Beyond!” during the punches and kicks section would be far more intimidating than “There’s a snake in my boots!”

And really, when a sweaty, 27-year-old woman is dressed head to toe in sparkly pink plastic, it’s all about the intimidation factor.

Take my word for it — I did get kicked out of ballet class, after all.

***********************

Psst! Wanna come to camp with me next year? Sign up here!

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Four years later: How my dad crashed my wedding night ²

You would think fourteen-hundred and sixty days would be enough time to recover from this sort of trauma.

And that’s where you’d be wrong.

So very, very wrong.

But before I recount the tragic happenings of this beyond awkward encounter at the Downtown Tacoma Marriott, I believe some celebrating is in order.

Sure, I supposed four years of marriage deserves some recognition.

But I was referring to an even greater achievement. That’s right, Scott did not show up two hours late for our anniversary dinner.

Our fourth annivesary at the Pink Door in Seattle's Post Alley

Bravo, oh punctual husband of mine!

This random act of timeliness, combined with my fancy new bike, pretty much makes up for the nearly missed birthday dinner the night before.

Yup, my birthday and wedding anniversary are on consecutive days. But no need to fret, Scott signed a contract at our rehearsal dinner stating that he would not combine gifts, dinners, or other celebratory purchases and activities despite the proximity of these two milestones.

These are the issues you should really tackle during your premarital counseling.

We celebrated four years of wedded bliss with a lovely dinner at The Pink Door in Post Alley, followed by an evening at home spent watching my anniversary gift to Scott, the complete DVD collection of “Breaking Bad.”

Because nothing says romance like a cancer-ridden chemistry teacher who decides to start cooking meth.

As we reminisced about our first date, U-Haul engagement (yes, Scott proposed in a U-Haul, perhaps I’ll tell that story next year) and how I managed to pay only ninety-seven cents for the hubby’s wedding band, I just couldn’t seem to block out the mental image of my father and younger brother, standing in our hotel lobby the morning after our big day.

And that’s when I curled up into the fetal position and started rocking.

Luckily, Scott was able to revive me with some peanut M&Ms we had on-hand.

The fact that I ate the entire bag illustrates how extremely difficult this is for me to talk about.

************

On July 30th, 2007, I awoke to the comfort of 750 thread count sheets and a cloud-like down comforter.

I also awoke to the sound of snoring.

My husband snoring, to be exact. That’s right, I was finally a married woman.

Rolling over to check the alarm clock, I was surprised to be wide awake at 8:30. The previous week had been exhausting, and I thought for sure I would sleep until at least ten or so.

I tried to drift back asleep, but the noise of Scott’s log-sawing made it practically impossible.

I decided to savor the moment, and soak in every detail our first morning in bed together as newlyweds.

Naturally, my mind soon drifted away to far more important things…waffles, to be exact.

I had been staring at the ceiling for approximately twenty minutes, deciding whether or not to order room service when I heard it.

The phone on my nightstand was ringing.

Who could possibly be calling at this hour? On this day?

Against my better judgment, I slowly picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Trina! It’s me, Daddy!”

Oh dear God.

“Are you awake, sweetheart?”

“Oh. Hi, Dad. Um, yeah, I just woke up a few minutes ago.”

“How about Scott?”

“Scott? He’s still sleeping.”

“Oh, OK. Guess what…I’m in the lobby!”

The lobby? As in this lobby?

“And Janss is with me!”

Janss? As in, my eighteen-year-old younger brother, Janss?

“Oh! And we brought you some coffee.”

I’d like to be able to say I did the mature, respectable thing.

But I’m a sucker for a good latte.

“Wow…um, thanks Dad. I’ll be down in a few minutes, OK?”

“Sure, sure, take your time. Oh, and why don’t you bring your dress down? That way I can take it home so mom can bring it into the cleaners. You’re not gonna want to haul that thing around today.”

Five minutes later, I stumbled down the stairs in a pair of sweats and a tank top. My hair extensions and false eyelashes were quite disheveled, yet still miraculously attached. The white gown delicately spread across my outstretched arms contrasted with the black mascara rings beneath my swollen eyes.

Mark stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, waving at me with the excitement of a little boy at his very first baseball game.

Janss, on the other hand, couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact.

I can’t say that I blame him.

My eyes honed in on the generic styrofoam cup in my dad’s right hand, as I slowly faced the cold hard truth.

I had been tricked.

Turns out “We brought you some coffee” is Mark’s way of saying “I poured you a cup of free coffee from the thermos in the lobby.”

I really should have known better.

But it was too late. Mark’s arms were open wide, waiting for a hug from the new Mrs. Taylor. I couldn’t bring myself to deny him.

“Hey, Dad. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, sweetheart! Janss and I just dropped the linens and china off at the party rental store, and thought since we were so close and all, it might be nice to swing by and say a quick hello.”

Oh, really?

Let me clarify one simple fact.

The hotel and party rental store are in no way, shape or form, geographically “close”.

Mark, a stickler for using the least amount of gas possible, would never drive this far out-of-the-way under normal circumstances.

I decided it would be best not to point this out.

“So, wasn’t last night great? I’ve got to tell you, I was really pleased with how everything turned out, weren’t you? Did you like my sermon? You know, I thought Michael did a great job dee-jaying the reception. Don’t you think, Janss? I’m really glad I thought to give him a call.”

My dad’s recap of the wedding continued for a few more minutes, as Janss continued to look down, despite Marks repeated elbowing.

And then, my heart stopped.

Mark had asked the unthinkable question.

“So, Trina. How was your guys’ night?”

He looked expectantly at me with a genuinely innocent grin spread across his over-tanned face. As if he had just asked me where we were going to go for brunch or what I when I wanted to open our gifts.

I could see Janss’ ears turning red.

I could feel my brain going blank.

How am I even supposed to respond to this?

I took a sip of coffee to buy myself some time to think. As the rough styrofoam grazed my lips, I remembered the way to my dad’s heart is through his wallet.

And then, I spoke the most cleverly crafted sentence cluster of my life.

“It was great! The honeymoon sweet was amazing…probably the nicest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in. And with Scott’s discount, it was only forty-nine dollars! We really lucked out.”

It was true — Scott had been working nights as a bartender at a hotel back in New York to earn extra money while going to school. Not only did he make out with some pretty sweet tips, we always snagged fabulous hotel rooms for dirt cheap prices thanks to his employee discount.

Mark was beaming, more so even than when I had walked down the aisle the night before.

I had done the cheap skate proud.

After an awkward goodbye, I wandered back up to our suite where I found an awake, slightly confused husband waiting for me.

“Where were you?”

“Oh, I just went down to the lobby. You’re not gonna believe this, but, my dad actually just stopped by. I think he’s having kind of a hard time letting go.”

“Oh…okay. Hey, are you hungry?”

Not many people can tolerate the craziness that is Mark. The fact that his unannounced drop-in didn’t even phase Scott confirms that I married the right person.

**********

After the first two episodes of “Breaking Bad”, we decided to call it a night.

What?

It’s our anniversary, and we’ll crawl into bed at 10pm if we want to.

The fact that it was a Saturday night is completely irrelevant.

Just as we were falling asleep, Scott leaned over and grabbed my hand.

“You know what I was just thinking?”

Hmmm….let’s see.

That I’m the best wife in the world? That marrying me was the pinnacle of your life? That you can’t imagine how you would go on if I wasn’t a part of your day-to-day existence? That my stunning beauty is so intense, it’s causing your eyesight to deteriorate?

“How much I love hanging out with your family. Especially your Dad. You know, he’s a really funny guy.”

Yeah. Hilarious.

And so, not only did Mark crash the honeymoon suite, he also managed to make an appearance at our anniversary, four years later.

Without actually being present.

A feat so impressive, I think I might actually find it in my heart to forgive him.

But it better not happen again.

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It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to ⁷

I know, I know. It’s been a while since I posted.

Seventeen days, for those who are counting.

It’s not that I want to make excuses or anything. But I did attend an intensive four-day fitness camp, celebrate my birthday and anniversary and finish, like, a gazillion projects at work.

Okay, maybe not a gazillion, but at least half a gazillion.

I’ve also been working on a super secret writing project that has been taking up massive amounts of my evening blogging time. Stay tuned.

The good news is that I’ve got so much crazy stuff to write about, I feel as if I might explode all over the internet.

Perhaps that wasn’t the best visual, but you get the idea.

I’ve also learned some very important things about myself.

Like the fact that I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow throwing a tempter tantrum.

In public.

A week ago, I planned to celebrate my twenty-seventh birthday with my family at Seattle’s semi-new Hard Rock Cafe.

I don’t particularly like the Hard Rock Cafe that much, but I’ve heard rumors that their rooftop deck is ah-maaah-zing, and I wanted to enjoy the beautiful day by gazing across Elliot Bay, Pike’s Place Market and Downtown Seattle while eating French Fries and listening to bad 80s music.

It just sounded like a good time.

Or maybe I really am just growing older and lamer as each year passes.

This view is totally worth a few hours of overly priced cheeseburgers and tacky Little Richie memorabilia, if you ask me.

Either way, I had my heart set on a fabulous rooftop dinner.

When I stopped by the condo at 5:30 to pick Scott up (we are a one-vehicle couple…I know, it’s so Seattle of us) I was surprised to find the house empty. Okay, not totally empty…there was a seven-pound chihuahua jumping up and down frantically while licking my ankles and making whimpering noises that I interpreted to mean “You complete me”…but there was definitely no husband in sight.

I called his cell phone only to discover his battery was dead.

Awesometown.

I decided to settle in with the final book of the Twilight Saga (more on my despicable obsession later) and wait patiently for him to return home.

My sister and parents (who had driven all the way up from Tacoma) had been waiting over an hour downtown while I was still chilin’ at home with Edward, Bella and Jacob. At this point I was not so patient.

And by not so patient I mean that I started frantically cleaning the house while applying more and more makeup and singing Happy Birthday to myself.

It wasn’t a pretty sight, folks.

We opted to cancel the Hard Rock plans and have my family come up to Ballard while we waited for Scott, whose phone was — surprise, surprise — still dead.

The fact that I had not engaged in any online retail-therapy at this point is practically a miracle. I think I deserve some type of award for demonstrating a colossal amount of self-control in the face of a canceled birthday dinner.

Instead, I was given a mini Starbucks cupcake.

Which might actually be better than an award.

When my parents, Hayley, and Janss arrived, I was on the brink of tears.

Hayley immediately pried my quivering chin open and shoved the cupcake down my throat to delay the blubbering for at least a few more moments.

She knows me so well.

Once the mood-boosting effects of the frosting wore off, I was showered with compliments in order to avoid a Katrina-style meltdown. Even Mark kept telling me how pretty my dress was or how nice the house looked in order to distract me from the fact that my husband was 90 minutes late for my birthday dinner.

It didn’t work.

My mother swooped in with the rescue, suggesting I open my presents.

She knows me so well.

Oh, just admit it — opening presents in front of a crowd is one of life’s simple pleasures that never seems to get old.

Kind of like watching mean people trip or winning the prettiest dessert at the cakewalk.

I am not ashamed to admit that I ripped open my gift bags with the vigor of a six-year-old boy.

My gift from Mom was a blinged-out study Bible complete with silver leafed pages and a rhinestone encrusted bookmark.

I probably should have read a few verses on patience in the face of a forgotten birthday dinner or something, but I was too curious to see what mysterious treasure awaited in the giant gift bag my father was codling.

That’s right, the time has come for another episode of Gifts from Katrina’s Dad.

Believe me, this one will not disappoint.

That’s right, “Seattle in a Box”.

Jealous?

The title led me to believe that there was a pretty good chance Steve Pool would jump out as soon as I removed the lid.

Steve knows how to make it rain. Literally.

The big reveal was a little less exciting…the box contained a Seattle-themed Monopoly board game.

From the early nineties.

At least I’m assuming it was from the early nineties as is featured The King Dome, The Elliot Bay Bookstore, Windows 95 and of course, Gary Payton.

I wonder if it’s worth anything after all these years?

Mark sure seems to think so.

After snapping this photo, he informed me that on my next birthday, he would check to see if we had actually played the game. If not, he wanted it back.

Before I could call him an Indian giver, Hayley reminded him that he already has another one of these treasures at home, and probably doesn’t need duplicate board games.

He failed to see her reasoning, simply stating “Play it, or it’s mine.”

I’m considering re-gifting it at his birthday next week, just to save him the 11-month wait.

I opened Hayley’s gift last, delighted to find a variety of items including a Lululemon headband, and this kitschy, yet practical book.

"How to Sew a Button, and Other Nifty Things your Grandmother Knew

I’m particularly excited to read the chapter entitled “How to Hem your Fancy Pants.”

But perhaps the most important gift from Hayley was a tin filled with chocolate covered espresso beans from Trader Joe’s. It was so much more than a delicious, caffeinated treat, it was a coping mechanism.

Look familiar? You might have seen this image in Webster's dictionary under the definition for "eating your feelings"

Just when I was down to my last coffee bean, I heard the door to our condo slowly creak open.

I’ll give you one guess as to who had finally decided to show up.

"Happy Birthday, Honey!"

There was a pregnant pause, as Scott lurched into the room of angry W.’s.

“How late am I?” he sheepishly asked.

Perhaps it was the sugar from the espresso beans and mini-cupcake, or the fact that my blinged-out Bible was sending me waves of patience and understanding.

Or maybe its simply impossible to think clearly when your father is hatching a plan to steal your birthday gift back without you noticing.

Whatever the reason, I somehow managed to remain perfectly composed.

“About two hours.”

Scott quickly explained that he had been called downtown for an Emergency Surgery that ran late. His phone had died, so not only was he unable to call for a ride, he had also run out of cash for the bus.

“So…how did you get here?” I asked with only a hint of hostility.

And that’s when I saw it.

But wait, there’s more.

Not only did Scott spent a ridiculous chunk of change on a pink and white breast cancer bike and coordinating dog basket, he had used them to make is 6.7 mile journey home from Capitol Hill.

The bike ride of shame

Scott’s account of the 45-minute trek confirms that riding a girly bike with a basket while wearing a purple dress shirt is a guaranteed recipe for various taunts, insults and cat calls. But if you enjoy being whistled at by homeless men, he highly recommends it.

I was so amused, I couldn’t even think of a way to guilt-trip him.

Leave it to that little turkey figure out the only possible way to show up two hours late for my birthday without getting yelled at.

Jolie suggested I pick up one of those bike radios so we can blast "Ridin' Dirty" at full volume the next time we roll up to Whole Foods.

If you think Scott was relieved, you should have seen the rest of my family. The impending doom of Hurricane Katrina had vanished, and they were free to enjoy the evening.

Or so they thought.

As dinner at the Hard Rock was out of the question, we needed to select a new location for my birthday dinner.

I settled on Ray’s Boathouse at Golden Gardens, but was quickly shot down as my dad didn’t want to have to drive anywhere.

This was slightly irritating, but being that we live within walking distance of at least fifty restaurants, I knew we could easily walk to another nice spot.

And so, the six of us strolled down Ballard Avenue to what is quite possibly my favorite restaurant in the city, Bastille.

Bastille serves French cuisine under an oversized vintage chandelier.

Bastille grows organic herbs and spices on their very own sustainable rooftop garden.

Bastille features re-salvaged streetlights, metro clocks, pendant lamps and subway tiles that were flown in from Paris and restored.

Bastille serves a lavender cocktail that will make you say “ooh-la-la” as you gaze into the brick fire pit that your table is built around.

Bastille will charge you upwards of twenty dollars for a meal that is delicious, yet sometimes…um…petite.

Bastille does not make Mark happy.

Not in the least bit.

When he asked if we could go someplace “cheaper”, I tried my very best to act like a big girl.

When he mentioned ordering a pizza, my lower lip began to tremble.

And when he suggested going to Wendy’s, I lost it.

This is how, at the ripe old age of 27, I stood in the middle of Ballard Avenue crying like a baby in my brand new party dress.

For a good five minutes.

I didn’t care that strangers were staring at me.

I didn’t care that Janss and Hayley crossed the street so no one would associate them with the crazy lady on the sidewalk.

I didn’t care that I had a brand new bike at home.

All I wanted was my rooftop dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe.

Apparently, twenty-seven years on this planet has not been enough time for me to outgrow throwing a temper tantrum when I don’t get my way.

Mark and Scott finally calmed me down, and tricked me into a casual dinner at Zayda buddies — a Minnesota-style pizza bar.

It wasn’t my cup of tea, but the entire family cornered me into a booth so that I was unable to escape.

And you know what? It was actually kind of fun.

I love the look on Scott's face. He's totally afraid I'm going to snap at any minute.

Pizza and cheese curds weren’t exactly what I had in mind, but I soon began to realize that maybe birthday’s aren’t about a perfectly planned dinner, or an amazing view. Maybe they aren’t about the best gift in the world or over priced French food.

Maybe they are about spending time with people who will sacrifice their macho-status to make sure you get your bike with a basket, and family members who love you no matter how many times you cause a scene in public.

And maybe, no matter how old you are, birthdays should always end with you riding your new bike around the block while your family claps vigorously when you don’t fall over.